


chiaroscuro

by tarcanza



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2007-2008 NHL Season, 2008-2009 NHL Season, Angst, Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Rookie Year, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26072356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarcanza/pseuds/tarcanza
Summary: Against all odds, Patrick was a marvel, a hard-working miracle, a star so bright he could’ve burned the league alive with his own two hands. But now he had to do it with Jonny chained to his side.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 13
Kudos: 53





	chiaroscuro

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been a MASSIVE undertaking.
> 
> Thank you so, so much to dauhu for basically reading every 3 lines I send of this fic over Twitter DMs and giving me feedback, eak_a_mouse for being the best beta ever, and thathockey and solizabeth for the constant love and support <3

When Jonny was fifteen years old, his parents went on a trip to Italy. “It’s an incredible itinerary,” his mother said, gushing over the phone. “Milan, Venice, Florence, then on to Rome.” She was enamored with the old masters, the way they could shape the vulnerable bow of a lip, make shadows pool and dip in collarbones with light and paint and stone. But Jonny was far more concerned with the angles of pucks whipping across the ice than those of human anatomy, so while she ruminated on the skill of Caravaggio, he dreamt of Sakic, stick twitching in his hands long after she hung up the phone. 

Months after his parents returned, Jonny got a postcard in his mailbox at Shattuck’s, a single crease running down the center. “ _Senza tentazioni, senza onore,”_ his mother had written in her spidery black lettering. _Where there is no temptation there is no glory_. 

He flipped it over, expecting to find a shoddily printed shot of the Colosseum, or maybe Trevi Fountain. Instead, he got a revelation. _David_ the caption said, printed neatly at the bottom left corner, and Jonny couldn’t believe there was a time he didn’t care about the way tendons could be carved out of marble. 

It was the first time Jonny felt reverence in the face of beauty. 

The second was on the open ice in front of empty seats, where Patrick Kane stood alone on the first day of prospect camp, shooting pucks into an open net. The resemblance was almost uncanny; he was crafted delicately, a Greco-Roman wet dream, skin unmarred and curls curved softly around his face. 

It was the stick that sealed the deal, though, wielded like a weapon. The puck hit the back of the net, and his lips curved up in a smirk. Jonny felt desire bowl him over, fast and hard. His mother’s words, buried by time, rose to the surface. _Senza tentazioni, senza onore._

 _Where there is no temptation there is no glory._

That night, he whispered it to himself like a prayer. 

Two months later, he watched Kane approach Hasek, dancing the puck across the ice. A shiver shot down his spine, and he thought that maybe this was what it was like to watch David face Goliath. 

Hasek went down and the United Center thrummed with the sweet pulse of victory, fans shooting up in the stands and cries filling the air. Kane tilted his chin back and soaked it all in, something savage in his smile. 

Over the years, Kane becomes Patrick, Kaner, Peekaboo, Peeks. He laughs and jokes and blushes and preens, but Jonny never forgets the warrior underneath. 

_Senza tentazioni, senza onore._

In hindsight, maybe Jonny shouldn’t have taken it so fucking literally. 

* * *

The funny thing is, Jonny didn’t even _like_ Patrick at first. 

Patrick disliked him more.

“You’re married now, in a way,” Savard told them at their first meeting, and Jonny’s heart raced in something like anticipation even as fear swirled in his gut. 

When he looked over, Patrick’s face was pinched. “Can we go?” he asked brusquely, already half-way rising out of his seat.

Against all odds, Patrick was a marvel, a hard-working miracle, a star so bright he could’ve burned the league alive with his own two hands. But now he had to do it with Jonny chained to his side. 

_I know,_ Jonny wanted to scream at him. _I didn’t think it would be this way, either._

But it could be good, _so_ good. Jonny could taste it at the back of his throat; pure potential, thrumming like a live wire. 

Patrick didn’t want it, though, not initially. 

Jonny finished a speech in the locker room, something about centering yourself, keeping focus—Jonny felt the words to his core, a steady beat of _what if_ pulsing through his brain when he looked at the men around him. 

“Is that right, Mr. Serious?” Patrick asked, eyebrows raised. It could be teasing, fond even. But it wasn’t, and Jonny felt the air deflate right out of him, leaving him hollow and drained. 

In front of the cameras, Patrick would laugh and throw his arms around Jonny, easy with his affection. Jonny would sink into it, unable to help himself. For as obnoxious and brash and curiously prickly Patrick was, Jonny was still hopelessly drawn to him. 

It was a different story behind closed doors. 

“You look fucking stupid in your underwear,” Patrick told him imperiously, towel hanging low on his hips. 

Jonny was furious at the way his breath caught at the sight of water lightly sheening Patrick’s chest even as indignation simmered low and hot under his skin.

“Maybe you should just fucking leave, then, if it bothers you so much,” Jonny snaps, arching his back into Bitilasana. His knees were starting to chafe against the hotel carpet, but he didn’t dare move an inch.

He took even lungfuls of humid air—Patrick ran his showers hot, and he left the bathroom door open, turning the inside of their room into a steamy mess. Jonny tried to close the door, only for Patrick to come out of the shower without a stitch of clothes on and open it back up while Jonny averted his gaze. 

Patrick narrows his eyes. “This is my room too.”

Jonny didn’t bother answering, pressing his stomach into the floor and switching to Salabhasana with practiced grace. The tendons in his neck strained as his arms reached straight back towards his raised calves. 

Patrick wavered for a moment and then sneered, stalking to the bed and throwing himself down so hard that the headboard rattled against the wall. He grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, flipping to the _Wheel of Fortune,_ probably because he knew Jonny fucking hated it. 

Jonny would laugh if he weren’t busy gritting his teeth, because he knew for a fact that Patrick didn’t fucking like it either and—

Jonny could see him watching, eyes flicking to the curve of Jonny’s spine every few seconds. 

He always watched. It was part of why Jonny did it. 

He can admit that to himself now. 

* * *

Despite Patrick’s desire to be his own contained constellation, they were stars circling each other’s orbits. 

Even Patrick felt the pull when they hit the ice. “ _Yeah, baby!”_ he screamed in Jonny’s ear as he crashed into his arms after scoring a goal, a filthy thing going five-hole on Legace off of Jonny’s pass between Peron’s legs. 

Jonny felt a jolt of joy part through the pooling dread, because how could he not, with Patrick’s arms around him like that? It was the only time he touched Jonny except when they were in front of the cameras. 

As Patrick skated off, though, the unease returned, squirming around his stomach until the final whistle was called.

He pulled Patrick aside as they retreated towards the locker room after the game, the chatter from the rest of the boys steadily fading as they disappeared down the tunnel. 

“Kane, you have to use me out there,” Jonny said. His voice was low, even though they were now alone. It still sounded loud in the empty space. 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Patrick asked, brow furrowed. Patrick had been laughing, eyes bright and pleased, joking with Sharpy and Bur. Now he stood stock-still, and for a moment, Jonny hated himself for freezing the grin on his face. 

“It took us until the final five seconds of the power play to take a shot. We were lucky it went in. You need to fucking pass the puck, okay?” 

Patrick’s fingers clenched into a fist. “We _won,_ you fucking asshole. _I_ won. I scored.” Patrick was starting to go red, radiating with something dark and angry.

Couldn’t he understand? “It’s not enough,” Jonny said finally, because despite the intrinsic chemistry they’d been blessed with, they weren’t going to make it unless they worked at it, unless they were intentional. 

No shots in the dark, no relying on the magnetism. Patrick had to want it, to buy into it, to nurture it. 

They were going to bring hockey back to Chicago, Jonny knew it. 

_Patrick_ was going to bring hockey back to Chicago. 

But not like this. 

Patrick stared at him hard, lips twisting into something bitter. “Fuck. You.” It came out quiet and furious. His fingers were white from where they were gripping hard onto his stick. “Why am I never enough for you?” he all but whispers, and all Jonny wants to do is tell him is that he _is,_ he’s _everything_ and that’s why—

“You have to do better.” 

Patrick slumped forward like his strings had been cut, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Okay, Toews.” He sped up, leaving Jonny standing alone in the tunnel. 

Maybe it was Jonny’s fault for pushing too hard. 

But that’s all he knew how to do. It’s what he was _meant_ to do. Hopefully one day it would be worth it, he thought, staring at the spot Patrick had disappeared from.


End file.
